901

Two Poems by William Wordsworth

THE SOLITARY REAPER

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

*

A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL

A slumber did my spirit seal
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

A SOLITARY MOTOR
By
Norman N. Mullins

On a gloomy night in Ireland, I am hitching all alone,
Down a spooky, rain-lashed lane, some miles from home.
A ghostly wind is howling and the night is devil-black,
As I sense that something's there, behind my back.

I turn and peer into the gloom, my heart beats fast with fear,
As through the eerie mist a very strange vision appears.
A car emerges slowly, no engine noise, no sound,
It rolls and stops beside me on the sodden marshland ground.

So, desperate for shelter, and without a second thought,
I clamber in to find the blessed solace I had sought.
And as I slam the car door, feeling rather worse for wear,
I turn and see to my alarm... nobody else is there!

Again the car starts moving, still no driver at the wheel.
Afraid, unable to suppress the helplessness I feel,
I babble in sheer terror, as ahead there looms a bend,
And I am sensing this, for sure, will be my sorry end.

When through the open window a ghostly hand appears,
And steers us round the bend! so in the thralls of horror, fear,
I push the car door open and fall into the night,
And then, both arms a'flailing, I run off in full flight.

Finally I come across a welcome village inn,
I rush inside and buy myself a massive warming gin,
Then the door flies open and two soaked men storm in cussing:
"Are ye the fecker who got in the car that we were pushin'!?"

902

A POISON TREE
by William Blake

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

A POISON PLANT

Wallowing, diffident I begin;
Bitter Oleander in that gin.
I may do it if I dare;
Rosary Pea and a prayer.

Twelfth month on the dwindling vine,
Fighting my way to the finish line.
White Snakeroot, lethal within;
Definitely did Abe's mom in.

Why withstand the morbidity
When giddy with mortality?
Deadly Nightshade, he who reigns;
Wild berries thwarted the Danes.

Two damn myths and ugly intent
Must end that big winded lament.
Water Hemlock guarantees...
Death, we remember Socrates.

903

[William Wordsworth's Romantic poem about March is anagrammed into a poem about a slightly less idyllic relationship between Nature and Man; the poem is also metaphoric and contains a couple of constraints detailed below:]

Written In March (a Romantic poem by William Wordsworth)

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The plowboy is whooping—anon-anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!

The March

I see the virile forest offspring rising
When men with guns infringe on greener woods,
Their futile pastimes often terrorizing
Their residents and dooming all the brood.
The teeny animals ask what that's worth -
These lethal principals "we don't revoke" -
And how that trespassing will aid the earth
If they can let the acorn be one oak?
They tour on bleakly barren lands together
As avid scions with a brand new role;
Indeed I see each talon, paw or feather
Emerging now to net a single goal:
To tell the crew that shot their family
"You didn't just kill them. You're killing me."


[The poem is also a metaphor to the recent March for Our Lives event on March 24th, organized by the student behind the Never Again movement following the Douglas High School shooting; the event was also accompanied by major criticism of the NRA. Consequently, when the only words that contain the letters NRA in the anagram are in bold, a gun appears - and when strategically placed N's & A's are painted red, the movement's response is visually depicted:]


The March

I see the virile forest offspring rising
When men with guns infringe on greener woods,
Their futile pastimes often terrorizing
Their residents and dooming all the brood.
The teeny animals ask what that's worth -
These lethal principals "we don't revoke" -
And how that trespassing will aid the earth
If they can let the acorn be one oak?
They tour on bleakly barren lands together
As avid scions with a brand new role;
Indeed I see each talon, paw or feather
Emerging now to net a single goal:
To tell the crew that shot their family
"You didn't just kill them. You're killing me."